


Bright With Fear, Black With Fire

by TheSecondBreakfast



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Baby Legolas, Blind Thranduil, Blood and Gore, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Poison, Sickfic, bc im a sucker, because he makes everything better, like two seconds of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 23:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSecondBreakfast/pseuds/TheSecondBreakfast
Summary: Out on a scouting mission, Thranduil is struck with a poisoned arrow and is brought back half-dead and delirious. Some father/son bonding, because apparently it takes almost dying for Thranduil to stop being such a priss and realize what's actually important to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a 700-word long idea, then FUCKTUPLED IN SIZE into this. Legolas is about 2-3 years old in this, old enough to walk around and understand his surroundings. I didn't have him talk, because Legolas was totally one of those kids who waited until they could say complete sentences before talking. No official beta, but my wonderful best friend proofread this at least twice, so that probably counts.

He would never become accustomed to war. His beautiful Greenwood had been locked in war for almost as long as he could remember, but Thranduil would never allow himself to grow familiar with the bloodied mud and blank eyes and piles of bodies, both Orc and elven, waiting to be buried or burned.  
The silence was undoubtedly the thing that plagued him after each skirmish. Greenwood was never quiet; it grew, deepening, strengthening, expanding with the soft rustle of leaves and the screech of birds. Mirkwood, however, was black with silence, a poison leeching vitality from an entity that was too proud to accept defeat.  
Pulling himself from these dark thoughts, Thranduil heaved a sigh, breath hitching as his side flared with pain; no doubt a set of cracked ribs from the Orc shield that had smashed into him. The voice of Raenin, his Captain of the Guard, sounded in the back of his head, chiding him for ignoring his own injuries (again). Thranduil resolutely ignored it. He was on edge and restless, the frenzy of battle still humming at the corner of his mind. Behind him, he could hear the soft murmurs of elves setting up medical tents and tending to the wounded, their sounds muffled by grief and exhaustion. Thranduil felt a headache building as he stalked through the bodies, hoping to stay out as long as possible before casualty reports started coming in, the number of soldiers lost jumped a notch higher, and the responsibilities of a king came crashing back down.  
Thranduil walked until he could barely hear his contingent of warriors. He should head back, he knew. His guards got antsy if he was gone for too long. The king stopped in a small, sunlit clearing, but could not force himself to turn back, not yet. Thranduil tipped his head back and closed his eyes, drawing strength from the moment of solitude and from the ancient trees of his forest; he was too ill at ease, too tense to reach serenity, but he came close.  
And then a muffled shout from the direction of the camp behind him broke the silence. Thranduil's shoulders slumped, the moment lost. In the wake of such almost-peace, a thread of disquiet snaked into his thoughts. Distracted, the Elvenking loosened his twin swords; restlessness blossomed into unease. Long fingers tightened ever so slightly around the hilts of his swords. Thranduil stood very still, listening to his surroundings: the trees around him were silent, pillar after pillar of stony bark and fiery leaves. He relaxed a fraction. Perhaps it was-  
No. Movement.  
Without hesitation, Thranduil sidestepped, neatly cleaving the Orc's head from its shoulders.  
The soft twang of an arrow being nocked reverberated through the air (left, behind him, maybe twenty feet) and the King danced to the side, even as the decapitated body fell. The slap of taut string on the wood of a bow informed him he was too late. Thranduil lurched as blood sheeted down his leg, coating the shaft and black fletchings of the arrow imbedded in his thigh.  
He whirled about as fire engulfed his leg, lunging forward and slashing his swords into-  
Nothing. The archer was gone.  
One sword hit a tree so hard it jarred his entire body. The sound of heavy footfalls (Uneven: wounded) and crashing foliage faded, leaving Thranduil alone in a clearing with a dead Orc.  
The Elvenking stood, breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his hands as he choked down the acidic pain rising in his throat like bile. He wrenched his sword from the bark with a snarl, turning towards the light footsteps of Galloran, his lead scout.  
"Hîr nín, what-?"  
"Deserters," Thranduil spat, sheathing his swords as he brushed past the scout, trying to hide his heavy limp and bleeding wound. "I need to return to camp, organize a rout, and scour these beasts from the face of the earth."  
Galloran snapped out of his confusion. "I shall see to it. After getting you to a healer," he said, slinging the Elvenking's arm across his shoulders and starting back towards camp. Thranduil swayed for a moment, paling as the arrow grated across bone, before allowing Galloran to support him. The king cursed the Orc and all its horrendous ancestors, but he had to admit its aim had been perfect. The wound left him crippled and vulnerable, but not in much danger of bleeding out any time soon. Thranduil figured, as he and Galloran limped back to the clearing, that the Orc's purpose had been to capture and torture him for information (Stupid, of course. Elves were excruciatingly stubborn, and not so easily broken). But if that was the case, why had it run almost immediately? Thranduil was not arrogant enough to believe his own ferocity had scared it off; perhaps it had seen Galloran behind him?  
Thranduil's thought train shattered as he stumbled upon a fallen log, jarring the shaft and shooting agony through the shredded muscle. A short yelp of pain escaped him, before his jaw clenched painfully, grinding his teeth against the scream rattling around in his chest. Thranduil hung his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, breathing hard and slow as perspiration began to bead across his forehead. The King of the Woodland Realm _would not ___pass out 200 feet from his command tent.  
Galloran shouldered more of his weight, shooting his king concerned sideways glances. When Thranduil finally thought his knees were going to buckle completely, he and Galloran stumbled into the clearing, the green medical tent and his scarlet command tent shouts of color amid the sickly gray backdrop of his forest. A cry went up amid the elves clustered there, and the Elvenking's free arm was pulled across another set of shoulders. Thranduil slumped against the newcomer, panting. Closing his eyes again, he tried not to focus on how he suddenly felt weak as a kitten. The sporadic, uncontrollable trembling was most likely not a good sign either.  
The Elvenking caught the long-legged, purposeful stride of his second-in-command amid the rush of blood in his head and straightened, swaying. The elf took a breath to speak, but Thranduil cut her off with a small shake of his head.  
"Some of our enemy evaded death," He said, proud his voice only wavered a little. "Take ten of your best scouts and scour the surrounding area. I want every Orc tracked down and slain."  
The collection of elves hesitated, then bowed with a mumbled "Aran nín," before departing.  
Standing had taken energy he did not have, Thranduil discovered, and would have collapsed had Galloran and the perimeter guard not been there. Shouts reverberated above him, alarmed and urgent. His eyes slid shut.  
Sweat trickled down Thranduil's cheek. Fog had filled his mind, he could not think straight, could not...

~~~ 

The pair of elves stumbled to a halt outside the large, green medical tent, the Elvenking a dead weight between them. Blood-spattered healers bustled in and out, exchanging orders and supplies as they went. Galloran called to one of them before they could disappear behind the entry flap, and the elves were brought inside the tent.  
"Get the king up on the table." The healer, a dark-haired elf named Firnel, was curt as she scrubbed blood off her knuckles, piling bandages and jars of salves close at hand.  
The perimeter guard who had helped the Elvenking from the border of the camp stood shuffling his feet uncomfortably to the side, impatient to get back to his post. Galloran took pity on him and nodded in his direction.  
"Dismissed."  
The elf nodded in return, and vanished from the stuffy medical tent.  
The healer- far younger than Galloran had originally guessed- turned back around, pushing up her sleeves as she took a knife from the nearby table. "I'm going to have to remove the arrow now; he's lost too much blood as it is. Though he is lucky it missed the artery, or he'd have been dead before he got halfway back to camp."  
If Firnel noticed the way Galloran paled slightly at that, she refrained from mentioning it.  
But despite her determined voice, the scout caught fear in her eyes. He side-stepped around the table, opposite from her. "What can I do?"  
Firnel blinked, pushing past her trepidation and snapping into Healer mode. "Hold his leg in place while I work. I'm going to have to push the arrow through his leg to get it out, since we don't know if it's barbed or not, and any motion on his part may only cause more damage," she spoke as she worked now, carefully cutting away the blood-soaked fabric around the black arrow. "With the amount of blood he's lost, if I sedate him to do the operation, he may never wake up..." Firnel trailed off, brow furrowed in confusion. She leaned across the table and put the back of her hand against Thranduil's blood-streaked forehead. "I was right: he has a fever," She straightened, frowning. "That doesn't make sense. How long ago was he wounded?"  
Galloran blinked in surprise. "No more than 20 minutes ago."  
Firnel peeled back the tattered cloth of the king's leggings and cursed. Tiny black tendrils spider-webbed across his skin, spiraling out from the wooden arrow shaft.  
"Poison," Firnel hissed. "And not one I recognize. We need to remove that arrow- it's still leaking toxins into his bloodstream.  
"My king!" Thranduil's consciousness resurfaced, the voice cutting through the fog obscuring his mind, and his eyes flicked open; they focused towards the young healer with some difficulty. Firnel was blunt.  
"My king, you have been poisoned. I don't know what by, but waiting for someone who does isn't an option. I'm going to take the arrow out now, but I wanted to tell you so it wouldn't take you by surprise," she broke off, glancing around. "I don't have anything for you to bite on-"  
"Here." There was a clinking of metal, and a belt was put between the Elvenking's teeth, still warm from Galloran's body heat. Thranduil grunted his thanks, working his jaw around the sturdy leather. The healer swapped places with Galloran, who braced his arms above and below the shaft.  
The healer took a deep preparatory breath. Because of the angle, she'd have to push the arrow through the muscle, snap the point off, then draw the now-harmless shaft out. She gripped the fletchings, then glanced at the king. "Ready?"  
He flexed his jaw and nodded. Firnel steeled herself as best she could, then shoved the fletchings in a single sharp movement.  
Thranduil made a choking sound, back arching as the wicked barbed point was pushed through his flesh into air. He scrabbled for a handhold on the table, driving splinters beneath his fingernails. His leg spasmed as the point was snapped off, and Galloran was forced to maneuver more of his weight into holding his king down.  
"Almost done..." The healer circled the table, bracing her hand against his leg and pulling hard on the black feathers. The arrow resisted, grinding against bone, before coming free with a horrible sucking noise.  
Thranduil felt a scream tear at his throat as his awareness tunneled, then went dark. 

~~~ 

Raenin was worried.  
As the Captain of Mirkwood's royal guard, it was practically his job to worry, but this was different. The raiding party had returned three days ago, bloodied and considerably smaller than when they had left, with King Thranduil slumped lifelessly in the saddle of his second-in-command. The king had apparently escaped a skirmish with Orcs almost unscathed, only to be struck by a poisoned arrow after the fighting was over. Behind the confines of the thick oaken door behind him, the Elvenking shivered under heavy blankets, weaving in and out of consciousness as his fever continued to rise.  
Raenin sighed and slouched farther down in the chair outside the carefully carved and polished doors, stretching his legs out in front of him. Fighting a yawn, Raenin crossed his arms over his chest and allowed his eyes to close- exemplifying how truly exhausted he was. None of the guards or healers had slept properly since the battered soldiers returned, and captain of the guard was no exception to that. He had spent the last three days both planning and leading excursions into the woods, as a handful of Orcs had escaped death, and the trees were uneasy, meaning another pack may be on the move. As a result of all the frenzied action, one found elves passed out on any surface that was even relatively horizontal. Raenin would have been among them, but instead found himself drawn to the oaken chair outside the Elvenking's quarters. And since he wasn't officially on guard duty, sitting in this astonishingly comfortable chair and worrying about something he couldn't change seemed a waste of time. He let his breathing slow.  
Just as his mind had shifted into dreams, Raenin twitched awake as something attached itself to his leg. Large blue eyes stared up at him from the floor, arms clutching his booted foot for support. The guard let out a huff of breath, allowing a small smile to creep across his face.  
"Mae govannen, Legolas."  
The elfling blinked up at him, then reached up, making small grabby hands. Raenin rose and stooped to pick up the toddler, grunting as he lifted Legolas into the sky.  
"You know, you're heavier than you used to be," he said, smiling as the small prince blinked at him again, fist hanging out of his mouth.  
A young nursemaid, only just past childhood himself, skidded around the corner at the far end of the hall, looking very frazzled. When he spotted Raenin and Legolas, he visibly relaxed with relief.  
"Captain, I'm so sorry, I should have never let him out of my sight," he gasped, striding towards him. "It's just that the head healer is with the king, and we're short on healers to start with, not to mention overwhelmed by the raiding party, and you know how Legolas loves to explore, and-"  
Raenin cut him off with a raised hand and smiled. "It's quite alright. Illúvatar knows you healers are worked too hard anyway. And we were fine, weren't we, princeling?" He turned to Legolas, who waved a wet fist emphatically. That coaxed a tired laugh out of the nursemaid, who pushed unruly hair behind pointed ears. He looked completely exhausted.  
"I can handle one elfling for a couple hours," Raenin said, readjusting his grip on Legolas. "Go help the other healers, and get some rest before you collapse."  
After a round of breathless "thank you"s, the healer disappeared around the corner he had come from.  
"Now, what am I going to do with you?" The elf asked, sitting back down and stretching his legs back out in front of him, the prince perched in his lap.  
Suddenly, Legolas started squirming, kicking at the elf to put him down. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he toddled to the thick wooden doors to the king's chambers and put his chubby hands on them, then turned back to stare at Raenin pointedly. The captain shook his head and stepped forward to pull Legolas back.  
"Tithen pen, we cannot go in there. Your Ada is very sick, and..." He trailed off as the elfling turned and plopped down in front of the doors, still staring at Raenin with large, sad eyes.  
The elf drew up short and crossed his arms. "Don't look at me like that."  
The toddler's blue eyes welled with tears. It was only when his lower lip started to quiver that Raenin broke.  
"Alright, alright, I guess a couple minutes won't hurt." He scooped up the prince and reached for the handle. "Taking orders from an elfling..." 

~~~ 

Darkness and warmth enveloped them as they crossed the threshold into the sickroom. A fire crackled softly in the corner. Raenin nodded respectfully to the healer by the bedside, pulling the door shut as silently as possible.  
"How is he?" Raenin asked quietly, carefully seating himself in the second chair, settling Legolas in his lap.  
Thranduil lay motionless, sprawled across the large bed. The dim firelight had shadows dance across his face, making shadowed eyes and flushed cheeks more prominent. His face was turned away from them, the scarlet blankets pulled up to his throat. The glamour concealing his dragon fire scars flickered as Thranduil weakened, revealing the gaping hole that was all that remained of one cheek and spreading burns from the left cheekbone to the opposite temple. Though they were closed, Raenin knew that if the king were to open his eyes, they would be blank and sightless.  
The healer sighed. "He is strong, and I do not believe he will succumb, but it will take much time and suffering before he fully recovers. Even more so, since he is fighting both infection and poison. He is stable, as of now, but his fever is what worries me the most. Much more of this, and I am not certain even Lord Elrond can save him."  
Raenin nodded gravely. He had seen elves weaker than the King of the Woodland Realm broken by fevers that burned too hot, or too long.  
As he had with the nursemaid, the captain of the guard shooed the healer away to get some rest, with a promise to call if something changed.  
Sliding his boots off, Raenin swung his legs over one arm of the squishiest chair he could find, resting his back against the other. He shuffled around for a moment to get comfortable, then settled, Legolas a warm weight on his stomach. The prince was sucking on his fist again, and looking at his bedridden father with much more solemnity than one would expect from an elfling. Raenin heaved a sigh and started to braid Legolas' hair absentmindedly.  
"He loves you, you know," the elf murmered, working the elfling's feathery hair into twin warrior braids. Legolas turned towards his voice but did not look away from the bed. "He does not show it much... But you did not see him after your naneth died." (Raenin paused in his work at the image of his lord and king, cradling his wife and howling, screaming, as if his grief would echo into the Halls of Mandos and bring her back to him)  
The captain reopened eyes he didn't remember closing to regard the quiet elfling in his lap. "I think, penneth, you are the only reason your father still lives." He said very quietly, returning to his braid.  
Thranduil had been his friend long before becoming king, back when they were two awkward adolescents, still struggling with how to hold a bow and wield a blade. Raenin had advanced through the ranks, becoming Captain of the Guard not long after Thranduil became king, both their predecessors having been killed in the Last Alliance. The king of Mirkwood trusted him above all else, just as Raenin did in return.  
The elf's fingers froze in their work as a small whimper broke the silence.  
Thranduil shivered in the open air, kicking weakly at the blankets twisted around his legs. Raenin swung his feet off the chair, scooting closer to the bed to run his fingers through damp, golden hair. Thranduil's expression grew pained, and he made a small sound of protest, leaning into Raenin's hand. The captain pushed hair off Thranduil's hot (very hot, dangerously hot) forehead, quietly humming a song he no longer remembered the words to.  
It seemed to work; the Elvenking stilled almost immediately, listening as the song replaced whatever fire-ridden dreams haunted him. The captain let his own eyes close, his head falling against the backrest (sweet Valar, all he wanted to do was sleep).  
When Raenin's song ended, he believed Thranduil asleep, as the elfling in the captain's lap was. He raised his head to see, and was surprised to be met with slitted grey eyes, glittering feverishly in the dim candlelight. Raenin sighed, giving a small, tired smile as his friend's gaze swiveled in his direction.  
"Suilannad, mellon nín,"  
"Raenin..." Thranduil blinked slowly in confusion, his own voice sounding hoarse and foreign. "Where...?"  
"Hush. You were brought back to the palace, after the poison set in. The orcs are dead, you are safe here."  
Poison...  
Yes, he had been poisoned. Yrch poison. That explained the needles of ice running through his veins, and why his eyes felt hot and dry no matter how much he blinked. (That also explained the deep-set feeling that something was wrong, something was missing).  
The king shook his head distractedly, trying to clear the white noise skittering through his thoughts. "No...what is...?"  
Thranduil made to sit up, gasping in pain as his fractured ribs shifted. Knowing that dissuasion would only make him more determined, Raenin stood, carefully placing Legolas, who was sound asleep, into the chair and sliding his arm across the Elvenking's shoulders for support. Though he flinched away at first, startled by the sudden contact, Thranduil's strength was quickly burning itself out, and his eyelids fluttered as he defeatedly slumped against Raenin. Oh, yes, he had not felt this horrible in a long time. Not since-  
Thranduil shuddered, the sensation of dragon fire crawling across his skin. No, not since his queen had died, burned almost beyond recognition by the fire that had seared his flesh and taken his sight, had he felt this helpless, this close to death. Toneless white noise filled his thoughts as he struggled to remain conscious.  
With Orc poison in his blood and fragments of memory in his head, Thranduil realized what was missing.  
"Raenin," he said, opening his eyes and swallowing hard against the fear creeping around his chest. "Where is Legolas?"  
The captain twitched beside him. "Hmm?"  
Thranduil shakily repeated himself. Raenin looked over at the sleeping elfling, loathe to wake him, then back at the shuddering king. His tone became soothing, trying to placate the Elvenking into going back to sleep.  
"Legolas is here, he is safe."  
Thranduil made a pitiful keening sound. "I d-don't, don't s-see him."  
The captain found his throat closing around whatever he was going to say next. He had to swallow several times before he trusted himself to speak. "He is safe," Raenin repeated, hoarsely. "Legolas is asleep, as you should be."  
The king wavered, on the verge of agreeing, but then shook his head resolutely. "No, I need to... Need to-" Thranduil made to stand up. Raenin lurched to his feet just in time to catch him as both his knees buckled.  
"Woah, alright, let's- let's not do that," Raenin grunted, trying to shove Thranduil back onto the bed as gently as possible, all while the Elvenking moaned and tried to twist out of his grasp. The captain let some of his exhaustion bleed into his voice. "Please, mellon nín. You need to rest, you cannot-"  
"No!" the Elvenking half shouted, so forcefully his voice cracked, and succeeded in pulling out of the other elf's grasp. Raenin was startled into silence. The king gripped his arm so tightly the captain could feel his hand shaking; wide, overbright eyes flitted agitatedly across the captain's face as Thranduil's glamour flickered in and out like a candle in a windstorm.  
"Where... Where is Legolas? Where is my son?"  
Raenin, as any good captain did, knew when to accept defeat. Prolonging this would only bring harm and distress to Thranduil, something he could ill afford. Gently twisting out of his friend's grip, the captain scooped up Legolas, shushing him as the elfling fussed at being disturbed. Upon turning back, he saw Thranduil listlessly half-curled underneath the scarlet duvet, his strength having completely burned itself out. Legolas did not even seem to notice the transfer from Raenin's arms to the king's, merely latching onto Thranduil's chest, the warmest surface available.  
The king released a long, shuddering breath, resting his chin atop Legolas' head. Grey eyes slid shut, a quiet "Ion nín," mumbled into the elfling's flop of golden hair.  
The guard captain watched as Thrandul coiled himself around the elfling huddled against his chest, his breathing gradually slowing as sleep tugged him away from consciousness. Raenin stood beside the bed, until his own exhaustion returned like a load of bricks, almost knocking him to his knees. He snatched a blanket off a nearby stack, curled into a ball on the chair, and was asleep almost immediately. 

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish  
> (Nothing was in italics cause I'm lazy)  
> Hîr nín- my lord  
> Aran nín- my king  
> Mae govannen- well met (hello)  
> Ada- father, daddy  
> Tithen pen- little one  
> Naneth- mother, mommy  
> Penneth- young one  
> Suilannad, mellon nín- greetings, my friend  
> Yrch- Orc  
> Ion nín- my son
> 
> Also for those who don't have the time/energy to read the Silmarillion, Illuvatar is like the big dude in Elvish culture and religion. He had a jam session and created the whole entire world. And Mandos (also called Námo) is the Vala of the dead, who guards and watches over the Halls of Mandos, where the souls of slain elves go when they die.
> 
> EDIT: So this story recently broke 1100 hits....holy shit y’all. That is so much more than I ever even hoped for. Thank you so much to everyone who’s commented, kudos-ed, or even just read it! Each time I get a notification, my whole day gets 10x brighter!


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